I came across a poignant, beautifully-written short story in the New Yorker that any father should read. It’s about a father and his grown up daughter and their waning relationship. It struck me as an “anti-vision” of what I want to be when I hit retirement age.
This line gripped me particularly:
He could do anything he wanted in life, it seemed, except have dinner with his daughter.
I don’t expect my daugthers to always be daddy’s little girl, but Damn. Lies. All lies. We are raised on the lie that our worth as men is to make money and be useful. But what the hell is money, or anything, worth if your own children don’t respect you?